It’s not every day that you find history, penitence, and high jinks converging in a swirling fiesta of lashing ropes, gleeful splashes, and a meme storm brewing online—all under the hot Mexican sun. Yet, year after year, in the delirious crescendo of Holy Week, towns across Mexico deliver precisely that: a heady blend of tradition, humor, and homegrown redemption, whipping themselves (sometimes quite literally) into joyful repentance. If Saturday of Gloria was once a day for quiet reflection, it’s now a riotous parade where resilience, religious fervor, and viral humor all share the same stage—and everyone leaves with a story to tell, a sting on their back, or at the very least, wet socks.
Ask any Mexican—especially those who trace their roots to the regions of Jalisco or Guanajuato—what happens after the somber shadow of Good Friday, and you’re likely to catch a mischievous grin. For them, Holy Saturday (Sábado de Gloria) is far from mournful. It’s a day of communal catharsis, old wounds, and, paradoxically, roaring laughter.
Mexico, a land whose spiritual arteries pump with centuries-old Catholic tradition, does not merely commemorate Christ’s death and resurrection with stoic processions or whispered prayers. Here, the events are epic—in scale and spirit. When the last tear has been shed for the Passion, towns like San Martín de las Flores in Tlaquepaque, Jalisco, shift gears into redemption mode, holding the time-honored “cuereada” and unleashing a flurry of “colatazos” that would make even the saints look over their shoulders in confusion.
The rules are strikingly straightforward, though their logic might elude the uninitiated. Opposing pairs are positioned at opposite ends of a platform, a local band whips up a frenzied beat, and the antagonists march to the center. At the cessation of the music, the cuereada begins. With all eyes on them, the participants—usually men, though women sometimes bravely join—deliver and receive blows, testing not just their physical mettle but their willingness to atone, in a flesh-and-blood dramatization of redemption.
The act is steeped in lore: a stand-in for the collective guilt felt for Judas’s betrayal, or sometimes, for not having stopped Jesus’s crucifixion. The starring “Judas” (usually a handpicked local who played the infamous disciple in the Good Friday drama) is subjected to extra attention—a symbol, say many locals, of sin being expiated with each lash or yell.
But as municipal water reserves dwindle, city officials have stepped in, warning that revelers caught flouting water restrictions will face fines. That hasn’t stopped renegade splashers, of course, only driven their creativity. Memes with buckets, water balloons, and even hastily repurposed soda bottles abound on social media, making the annual bacchanal not just a public mess, but a digital one.
One viral image depicts two beefy men in traditional garb, faces cartoonishly contorted, reared back with ropes poised, while a string of comic “Pow!” captions rain down in classic lucha libre style. Another classic meme shows a chubby toddler hoisting a bucket, eyes wild with mischievous glee, while the background reads, “For your sins and for your hangover!”
The memes do more than just poke fun; they chronicle the changing meaning of Holy Week, capturing a festival that is as much about generational exchange as it is about faith. Grandparents grumble about “back when the lashes actually hurt,” teens coordinate aquatic ambushes on WhatsApp, and everyone participates—even if only by hitting the “share” button.
The cuereada and colatazos likely draw inspiration from both the medieval flagellants of Spain and the native conceptions of body, penance, and cyclic renewal. What began as somber acts of contrition—sometimes carried out in candle-lit silence—morphed into public theater as Mexico’s towns grew, and local identities crystallized around ever-more inventive displays of faith.
On the flipside, some municipalities host officially sanctioned cuereadas, deploying EMTs and volunteers to keep the festival safe. There’s an unspoken understanding that, while the line separating play from peril is thin, the collective release that these rituals provide is too important to ban entirely.
Neighborhoods are divided into camps of launchers and targets, and not even the priests, some years, have been spared from a good-natured drenching. For every complaint to the town council, there’s an abuela with fresh memories of hiding behind a laundry line or a weird uncle gleefully recounting the time he upended an entire kiddie pool over unsuspecting cousins.
This is less about the pain or wet socks and more about solidarity, memory, and belonging. To stand together—whether lashing ixtle cords or hurling buckets of water at giggling friends—is to be woven into a living tapestry of family, town, and faith. It’s about acknowledging failure and moving forward, bruised but unbowed.
This digital layer enhances, rather than replaces, the live event. The young may roll their eyes at elders’ warnings about “doing it for likes,” but everyone knows that the meme is now as important as the memory—and sometimes, destined to outlive it.
While some may blanch at the sight of ruddy backs or waterlogged streets, most participants (and even many skeptics) understand: these customs, ancient and ever-adaptable, embody the Mexican knack for finding light—and laughter—within even the heaviest traditions.
Perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, we’ll see laser-tag cuereadas, biodegradable confetti showers, or eternally saveable, waterproof phone cases developed with meme-makers, sinners, and saints alike in mind. But one thing is certain: as long as there are sins to be washed away, songs to be played, and buckets to be filled, Saturday of Gloria and its cast of characters—Judas, jokers, and all—will continue to captivate, provoke, and, above all, unite.
Source: Ruetir Holy Week 2025: With Memes they celebrate on Saturday of Gloria, Cuereada and Colatazos
The Raucous Anatomy of a Mexican Holy Week
Ask any Mexican—especially those who trace their roots to the regions of Jalisco or Guanajuato—what happens after the somber shadow of Good Friday, and you’re likely to catch a mischievous grin. For them, Holy Saturday (Sábado de Gloria) is far from mournful. It’s a day of communal catharsis, old wounds, and, paradoxically, roaring laughter.Mexico, a land whose spiritual arteries pump with centuries-old Catholic tradition, does not merely commemorate Christ’s death and resurrection with stoic processions or whispered prayers. Here, the events are epic—in scale and spirit. When the last tear has been shed for the Passion, towns like San Martín de las Flores in Tlaquepaque, Jalisco, shift gears into redemption mode, holding the time-honored “cuereada” and unleashing a flurry of “colatazos” that would make even the saints look over their shoulders in confusion.
What on Earth Is a Cuereada?
The name alone is enough to spark curiosity. Derived from “cuero,” the Spanish word for leather, the “cuereada” is a ritual that can sound positively medieval. On Saturday of Gloria, penitent townspeople, often egged on by local tradition and a dash of bravado, take to public plazas and platforms for a ceremonial exchange of lashes—sometimes using intricately woven ropes or leather straps, commonly made from ixtle, a resilient fiber sourced from agave.The rules are strikingly straightforward, though their logic might elude the uninitiated. Opposing pairs are positioned at opposite ends of a platform, a local band whips up a frenzied beat, and the antagonists march to the center. At the cessation of the music, the cuereada begins. With all eyes on them, the participants—usually men, though women sometimes bravely join—deliver and receive blows, testing not just their physical mettle but their willingness to atone, in a flesh-and-blood dramatization of redemption.
Colatazos: Neck-and-Neck with Tradition
If “cuereada” is about purging sin through stripes, “colatazos” (a term best translated as ‘tail lashes’) takes the redemption theme to rib-tickling, if slightly perilous, lengths. In some towns, this translates to literal whippings delivered with playful competitive spirit, echoing centuries-old traditions that blur the line between penance and public spectacle.The act is steeped in lore: a stand-in for the collective guilt felt for Judas’s betrayal, or sometimes, for not having stopped Jesus’s crucifixion. The starring “Judas” (usually a handpicked local who played the infamous disciple in the Good Friday drama) is subjected to extra attention—a symbol, say many locals, of sin being expiated with each lash or yell.
Sins Washed Away—One Bucket at a Time
It isn’t all about leather and lashes, though. Water, the universal symbol of purification, figures just as prominently—sometimes with hilarious complications. It’s a widespread custom, notably among families with young pranksters, to douse unsuspecting passersby with cold water, invoking old beliefs that this playful baptism washes away the remnants of sin.But as municipal water reserves dwindle, city officials have stepped in, warning that revelers caught flouting water restrictions will face fines. That hasn’t stopped renegade splashers, of course, only driven their creativity. Memes with buckets, water balloons, and even hastily repurposed soda bottles abound on social media, making the annual bacchanal not just a public mess, but a digital one.
Memes of Redemption: How the Internet Rewrote Gloria’s Saturday
If you thought the cuereada was intense, consider its digital doppelgänger: the meme-armed battalion unleashing GIFs, jokes, and doctored images across Twitter, Facebook, and TikTok. In the last decade, Saturday of Gloria’s public shenanigans have inspired a flood of memes—a testament not just to the resilience of tradition, but to the evolving Mexican sense of humor about penitence, pain, and shared absurdity.One viral image depicts two beefy men in traditional garb, faces cartoonishly contorted, reared back with ropes poised, while a string of comic “Pow!” captions rain down in classic lucha libre style. Another classic meme shows a chubby toddler hoisting a bucket, eyes wild with mischievous glee, while the background reads, “For your sins and for your hangover!”
The memes do more than just poke fun; they chronicle the changing meaning of Holy Week, capturing a festival that is as much about generational exchange as it is about faith. Grandparents grumble about “back when the lashes actually hurt,” teens coordinate aquatic ambushes on WhatsApp, and everyone participates—even if only by hitting the “share” button.
Where Did These Customs Even Come From?
Peel back the layers of noise, soap suds, and Instagram stories, and you'll find a rich history running through these practices like a hidden river. The roots stretch back to colonial times, when Spanish missionaries grafted Catholic dogma onto indigenous rituals of purification and communal atonement. The result was a syncretic marvel: traditions in which Catholic symbolism dances arm-in-arm with pre-Hispanic pageantry.The cuereada and colatazos likely draw inspiration from both the medieval flagellants of Spain and the native conceptions of body, penance, and cyclic renewal. What began as somber acts of contrition—sometimes carried out in candle-lit silence—morphed into public theater as Mexico’s towns grew, and local identities crystallized around ever-more inventive displays of faith.
Law and Order: Gloria Edition
Of course, not everyone is delighted by Saturday of Gloria’s unruly energy. The authorities—ever the killjoys, as tradition dictates—have taken aim at Holy Week excesses. In cities experiencing drought or water shortages, stern warnings are broadcast from every available loudspeaker: “No water throwing! Fines apply!” Law enforcement officers sometimes patrol the streets with all the enthusiasm of an elementary school hall monitor, while surreptitious splashing continues around every corner.On the flipside, some municipalities host officially sanctioned cuereadas, deploying EMTs and volunteers to keep the festival safe. There’s an unspoken understanding that, while the line separating play from peril is thin, the collective release that these rituals provide is too important to ban entirely.
It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Wet
Stories abound of near-mythical water wars from decades past—of ingeniously rigged rooftop traps, thunderous buckets of agua fría emptied from balconies, and cars rolling through town with windows shut tight against soggy snipers. In local memory, the phrase “el que no cae, resbala” (“those who don’t fall, slip”) is less a warning and more a source of pride.Neighborhoods are divided into camps of launchers and targets, and not even the priests, some years, have been spared from a good-natured drenching. For every complaint to the town council, there’s an abuela with fresh memories of hiding behind a laundry line or a weird uncle gleefully recounting the time he upended an entire kiddie pool over unsuspecting cousins.
Redemption, Reinvented: The Heart of Modern Holy Week
What makes Saturday of Gloria so enduring, despite the occasional bruise or bureaucracy, is its ability to reinvent itself each year. The mix of ritual and revelry, solemnity and slapstick, reflects a society that grapples with its past while embracing the chaos of the present—a holy day where everyone, for just a few hours, can lay down their burdens and embrace a wild, cathartic joy.This is less about the pain or wet socks and more about solidarity, memory, and belonging. To stand together—whether lashing ixtle cords or hurling buckets of water at giggling friends—is to be woven into a living tapestry of family, town, and faith. It’s about acknowledging failure and moving forward, bruised but unbowed.
From Town Square to Timeline: The Meme-ification of Tradition
The transformation of Saturday of Gloria into a meme-fueled internet sensation is, perhaps, inevitable. In a nation where mobile data and smartphones are as ubiquitous as rosaries, every spill, splash, and yelp is potential meme fodder. TikTok challenges spring up under every conceivable hashtag. National brands seize the opportunity with tongue-in-cheek ads featuring their mascots beset by pranksters; influencers post side-by-side before-and-after shots, inviting their followers to vote for their favorite cringe-worthy Colatazo moment.This digital layer enhances, rather than replaces, the live event. The young may roll their eyes at elders’ warnings about “doing it for likes,” but everyone knows that the meme is now as important as the memory—and sometimes, destined to outlive it.
Satirical Redemption: When Even Judas Gets a Second Chance
The ultimate irony is reserved for Judas Iscariot, the scapegoat of the festivities. Reviled on Good Friday, he becomes the absurd hero of Saturday, receiving as many sympathetic laughs as symbolic blows. Local actors, sometimes picked for their larger-than-life comedic flair, revel in the role, milking every shriek and tumble for audience applause. In communities where “burning the Judas” is common—a tradition involving pyrotechnic effigies—the meme cycle continues online, as videos of air-bound Judases tagged #SábadoDeGloria trend across platforms, uniting viewers in a combustion of laughter and collective release.What We Talk About When We Talk About Sins
Underneath the layers of spectacle and sass is a culture grappling with how to express repentance and renewal. Unlike the hushed confessions of Lent, Saturday of Gloria allows for loud, public, sometimes ridiculous purgings of guilt. The message is simple but profound: atonement isn’t always about suffering silently. Sometimes, the truest path to redemption is via a flurry of laughter, a stinging (but loving) lash, or that fleeting moment when a perfect meme captures a centuries-old paradox.While some may blanch at the sight of ruddy backs or waterlogged streets, most participants (and even many skeptics) understand: these customs, ancient and ever-adaptable, embody the Mexican knack for finding light—and laughter—within even the heaviest traditions.
Looking Ahead: Holy Week’s Next Chapter
None of these rituals exist in a vacuum. As climate change alters water usage and as social media accelerates the spread of micro-traditions, each new year brings its own twist on the Gloria Saturday script. This resilience—rooted in the willingness to change even as the heart stays the same—is what has kept the Mexican Holy Week so vibrantly alive.Perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, we’ll see laser-tag cuereadas, biodegradable confetti showers, or eternally saveable, waterproof phone cases developed with meme-makers, sinners, and saints alike in mind. But one thing is certain: as long as there are sins to be washed away, songs to be played, and buckets to be filled, Saturday of Gloria and its cast of characters—Judas, jokers, and all—will continue to captivate, provoke, and, above all, unite.
Conclusion: Come for the Redemption, Stay for the Chuckles
Between the stripes of tradition and the showers of modern absurdity, Mexico’s Saturday of Gloria stands as a living, laughing testament to the country’s unyielding spirit of renewal. Whether you’re ducking beneath a bucket, smirking at the latest meme, or nervously eyeing a length of ixtle, remember: every Holy Week, redemption is not just sought—it’s celebrated, shared, and, in the most Mexican way possible, made joyfully unforgettable.Source: Ruetir Holy Week 2025: With Memes they celebrate on Saturday of Gloria, Cuereada and Colatazos
Last edited:
